A King and his Squire
by Shhasow
Summary: A collection of unrelated drabbles about King Jonathan and his squire, Zahir ibn Alhaz.  Written for Goldenlake's SMACKDOWN.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **This is a collection of my best one-shots from Goldenlake's SMACKDOWN fiction competition. All of these are Jonathan/Zahir, but not slash. Everything will be a mentor-student relationship, and everything will be unrelated unless specifically indicated. I hope you enjoy them! (and I own nothing of Tortall - everything is TP's)

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><p><strong>A King and his Squire: A Collection<strong>

**Ameliorate, PG**  
><strong>Summary: <strong>Jon has a sinking feeling.

Jon hates seeing his squire in pain.

The king would have thought that he'd be long over it, seeing as he reigned over three different wars in his time. The sight of young men in agony, whether physical from a blow or emotional from loss, was an old sight, yet seeing the pain in Zahir's eyes as they rode away from his old tribe struck Jon like a blow to the chest.

He finally sighed and attempted to ameliorate the thick tension between them. "I'm sorry, Zahir."

"They won't accept me," said Zahir, dully.

"They will, one day," Jon responded firmly.

"One day, they will have no choice." Zahir's eyes flashed. "One day, I will be the Voice, and they will regret their actions this day."

Jon simply nodded, his heart pounding with a new emotion. Worry.

* * *

><p><strong>Silence, G<strong>**  
><strong>**Summary: **Joren's words spike an understanding.

Joren is physically incapable of shutting up.

He yammers on about Mindelan this, Queenscove that, and he always returns to the monarchs and how the king is ruining the country. It was much better in the days of King Roald, Joren swears. Zahir wonders if the blonde squire realizes that he never lived during those days. Certainly not from the way he talked.

Joren also forgets who is Zahir's knight-master, and it boils the Bazhir's blood when Joren speaks on matters he knows nothing of. He is a speaking piece for his father, and while that does annoy Zahir, it isn't the entire story.

It surprises even him that he dislikes hearing his old friend slur the king of Tortall. Zahir forces himself to clamp his mouth shut and nod every few minutes. He can't bring himself to listen to Joren's bile, and for once he empathizes with the Mindelan girl. Still, nothing gives Zahir greater pleasure than when he can finish his meal and return to his knight-master. The Bazhir cannot wait until they are all knights and he can finally tell Joren what he really thinks of the king, and of Joren.

* * *

><p><strong>Quell, G<strong>  
><strong>Summary: <strong>The reason Jon chooses Zahir.

"If you won't teach me, then why did you choose me as your squire?" shouted the dark-skinned squire, fists clenched at his side.

Jon sighed in exasperation. "There is more to this than learning how best to thrash another man in armor, Zahir."

"Like what?" Zahir sneered and crossed his arms. "So far in three months, all I've learned is your schedule of duties and all I've received is a closet full of court clothes because that's all I do. I'm your _courtier_, nothing more."

"Of course not," said Jon scornfully. "I chose you for a reason."

"And I'm eagerly awaiting what exactly it is. I have no idea."

Jon finally quelled the fierce, prideful anger with the truth. "I want you to be the next Voice, Zahir."

The look of utter shock and bewilderment was too much for Jon to handle. He threw his head back and laughed.

* * *

><p><strong>Sunrise, G<strong>  
><strong>Summary: <strong>Jon and his squire bond.

It was the morning, and once again Jon had no idea where his squire was. He was never in his bed at this time, nor did he wait upon his knight-master as he did every other moment of the day. _Every_other moment. Zahir certainly took his duties seriously, but for mornings.

Jon had decided a week ago to find his recalcitrant squire. As of yet, no luck, and every morning as the breakfast bell tolled, Zahir appeared, immaculate as always, to inquire after his daily tasks.

Today, Jon finally had a stroke of luck. As he stepped into a courtyard, he squinted against the early morning sun and spied a lone black figure on the curtain wall.

When he arrived, panting slightly, his squire was leaning against the wall, looking straight into the sun.

"You know that's rather bad for your eyes."

Zahir nodded slightly. "I'm aware, your majesty."

Jon waited a beat, then stood next to Zahir. He squinted into the sun, then shook his head.

The Bazhir took pity on his knight-master. "The sunrise reminds me of home. In the desert, the sun rises early, rises hot as it chases away the chill of the night. As a boy, I would stand outside my father's tent to feel the first morning rays."

"I remember that," Jon said slowly. "I spent a few months with the Bloody Hawk tribe in my youth. It was comforting to watch the sun rise."

"You can see it from miles away, not like this." Zahir gestured towards the mountains far in the distance. "There is nothing to obscure the sun's rising."

Jon watched his squire with fascination as the young man closed his eyes and leaned imperceptibly towards the sun, a slight smile growing on his face. For one moment, the Bazhir was home.

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><p><strong>Coffee, G<strong>  
><strong>Summary: <strong>Zahir loves coffee. Unfortunately, so does Jon.

If there's one thing that the northerners do right, it's coffee.

Zahir savors the bitter fumes as they drift alluringly to his long nose. He lifts the cup to his thin lips, but before he can take the smallest sip, his knight-master enters and he is obliged to rise.

"Your majesty." Zahir bows.

Jon grumbles. He rubs his tired eyes with one hand as he props his head up with the other. "Blasted long night," he mutters. "Zahir. Be a good lad and fetch a cup for me."

Zahir bites his tongue and quickly pours a fresh cup of coffee from the pot. He peers inside. There's only enough left for one decent-sized drink. If he hurries, it might be his. The king is a notorious coffee-thief, after all. Hurriedly, Zahir adds a pinch of sugar and a dollop of milk and hands it to the king.

By the time Zahir grasps his warm mug, Jon has already drained half of his. "Wonderful. Zahir, if you could grab my folder of reports about the grain harvest in the north, that'd be excellent."

Zahir sketches a quick bow and races to retrieve the folder. When he returns, he's dismayed to see the king already standing with the last of the coffee in a fresh cup.

"Wonderful. Go train or something while I finish these up."

The king slowly exits the room. Zahir stands mournfully by his cold cup of coffee, now utterly worthless.


	2. Chapter 2

**La****yers, G**  
><strong>Summary: <strong>Jon wants to peel back Zahir's character.

Zahir had many layers. Jon knew that when he chose him as a squire, yet the young man was frustratingly difficult to penetrate. It was three years later, and Jon was sure that he'd only seen a part of him.

On the outside was the proud, prickly Bazhir. His family was as old as the Conte line, if not older, and the man was extremely aware of that fact. It gave him a haughty tone to every word, and gesture, and likely thought, judging from the slight sneer that often settled on his lips.

That was not everything, though. It had taken Jon nine months to see more than a glimpse of the next layer, one fundamentally opposite to the surface. The next layer was uncertainty, seen in nervous fingers on a sword hilt. Once Jon spied him in the practice courts at night, shirtless against the night chill, as he worked practice patterns and prayed upon a hapless straw dummy.

That was not all.

Jon was still not certain that the next layer of Zahir existed. He'd only seen flashes of it personally, but more often he saw the aftereffects. An extra portion of grain in his mount's feeding box, for one, but that could be contributed more to care of an animal than genuine kindness. The same was true for the gleaming coats on both of their horses after a morning ride.

What confirmed it for Jon was when he heard that his squire had defended a servant girl from a few teasing boys. Being curious, the king confronted his squire, but Zahir simply went cold and shifted to his ever-present surface layer. The Bazhir sneered as he derided the pack of boys as 'mongrels preying on the weak,' but Jon saw his clenched fists. Clearly, they had struck a nerve in his cold, layered squire.

One day, weeks later, Jon passed the door leading to his squire's room. He hardly noted it as he strode through - his mind was on some piddly problem that apparently only the king could solve - but the low sound of weeping stopped him in his tracks. Shocked, he put his ear to the door and decided that it most assuredly was his squire.

Jon quietly knocked but didn't wait for an answer. He opened the door to see Zahir, head cradled in his hands, glistening tears seeping through his hands. One of the tomes on Bazhir history lay open in front of him.

Zahir glanced up at his knight-master, then looked away, ashamed.

The core of Zahir was laid open, cut to the quick, and Jon drew in a quick breath. All of the bravado, the posturing, the pride, that was all a mask, not a true layer at all. Or, he amended, it was a mask that had been worn so often that it had become the truth, but at this moment, Jon looked upon the real Zahir.

Jon quietly shut the door and leaned against it, peering with soft eyes at his worn, red-eyed squire.

The silence stretched out until it became a physical presence in the room and Zahir finally burst from it. "How do you do it?" he cried.

Jon smiled sadly. He understood completely, needing no explanation. "One day at a time. It's not easy, but it's necessary."

Zahir gestured towards the open book. "I can't believe that you know all of this. I grew up with these stories, but..." He trailed away helplessly.

Jon carefully lowered himself to the floor and picked up the book. Quickly, he skimmed it, cleared his throat, and read it aloud in the original Bazhir tongue.

The look on Zahir's face was priceless.

Jon finished the end of the passage and carefully passed back the fragile book. "I had a very good teacher," he said. "The Voice before me gathered a detailed history of his people. Our people. He read aloud to me every day for months until I could recite it back."

"That's... daunting," admitted Zahir. "I would not have been able to do such a thing." There it was, the next and final layer. Fear, and the burning desire to overcome it.

The king shrugged. "You already have, as a young boy coming to a land far removed from your own, speaking and reading a different language, and adjusting to foreign customs. You had no assurances but that of your old enemy."

"And the Voice."

Jon nodded. "As I've come to learn, the two must be mutually exclusive. That is why you will make a better Voice than I. Though the tribes may not war upon the Voice, there are other ways to demonstrate unhappiness, and there are many forms of subtle rebellion. You are Bazhir."

Zahir shook his head and laughed a low, rueful chuckle. "I am hardly Bazhir after seven years in the land of our ancient enemy."

"Nor are you Tortallan. You are a mix of both, and that will allow you to divert future conflict." Jon stood up, ignoring the protesting in his joints from sitting on a hard surface. "You asked how I can do it? Ask that of yourself, for you are the only one who can."

At the forlorn look in the boy's eyes, Jon stretched out a gentle hand and placed it on his firm shoulder. "Everyone has doubts and uncertainties, Zahir. Even kings and Voices. You will be better than I ever could hope to be."


	3. Chapter 3

**The Bendiest One, PG-13**  
><strong>Summary: <strong>Jon wants a bendy squire. Rating for innuendo.

**A/N: **"Bendy squires" is an inside joke on Goldenlake, referring to a characteristic favorable to squires.

"But Gary, which one is the _bendiest_?"

Gary of Naxen flipped through the papers. "According to Wyldon, your son."

Jon rolled his eyes. "Of course he is. He's _my_ son, so he's had lots of practice. What about..." His eyes searched the fourth-year pages. "_That_one?"

Flip, flip, flip. Gary cleared his throat. "Ah, bad choice, Jon. That's Joren of Stone Mountain, and Wyldon sings his praises."

"So he's an inflexible prick."

"More or less."

Jon sighed, then another page caught his eye. "That one. I want that one."

Flip, flip, flip. "Zahir Ibn Alhaz. One of the 'bendiest' pages in his year."

"That's enough for me. He's mine."

Cythera watched the king's retreating back and turned to her husband. "Gary. What was that?"

"What do you mean, dear?"

"'Bendy' pages?"

Gary shrugged. "Jon was very put out with his last squire. The boy was hardly flexible at all. It took many long hours and a lot of hard work to make him suitable. He nearly broke the boy."

She coughed. "WHAT?"

Gary gave his wife an odd look. "The Chamber breaks people who can't bend, so Jon wants to take Zahir as squire, as the boy's certain to survive. This way, Jon won't have to deal with being knight-master to a failed squire. He doesn't need that on top of everything else. What did you_ think_ I meant?"

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><p><strong>Cat, PG<strong>  
><strong>Summary: <strong>Zahir has a new friend. Jon is slightly jealous.

The tip of Zahir's boot poked the sleeping cat. The animal opened one golden eye, yawned, and went back to sleep.

"Shoo, you beast," the Bazhir muttered. "You're in the way." He poked it again, but this time the animal didn't even flinch. Zahir sighed and stepped over the animal, muttering, "Fine, but don't come to me when someone steps on you."

He settled into a chair and closed his eyes, exhausted after a thorough work-out. Zahir was nearly asleep when he felt a light pressure on his legs. He ignored it.

The cat quirked its head, studying the sleeping human. He crouched, then leaped into the air to land on the wide lap.

Zahir, startled awake, looked quizzically at the animal. "I don't like cats," he grumbled.

The cat agreed with him. _Other _cats were selfish beings with no redeeming characteristics. Not like humans, with their warm laps and strong fingers that stroked right behind the ear.

Jon called for Zahir. When he didn't answer, the king searched for him and found him in one of the sitting rooms of the monarch's chambers. His recalcitrant squire lounged in the most comfortable chairs, and surprisingly, he had a four-footed companion.

"Faithful." Jon raised one eyebrow at the black cat, named for Alanna's old god-cat. This one had the same personality as that old tom. The king strode over to pet the cat gently on the head. Faithful purred a deep rumble, but showed no desire to leave his warm human. "Smart fellow, to pick the best lap in the room." Jon stopped, then shook his head to clear that image from his mind. Bad, bad king.

Still, Jon would never have pegged Zahir as a cat person.

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><p><strong>Biochemistry and Tortall<strong>**, PG****  
><strong>**Summary**: A cracky fic about biochemistry, Greek, and music, thanks to Griff, Mandi, Seek, and Muse.

**A/N: **This one requires explanation. It was a challenge issued to me by some friends. I asked what to write about and gave three options. The obstinate people chose all three. All the chemistry is entirely accurate. (Also, see if you can recognize the songs. They're changed slightly for the audience.)

Despite being surrounded by 30,000 glucose molecules, Jon the glycogenin protein was lonely. His sole job in the body was to anchor the carbon molecules into the form of glycogen, as the first greedy bastards latched onto his lingering strands of tyrosine derivatives. They were followed by more glucose, and more, until Jon was one protein in an ordered chaos.

_Mithros_, he massaged his active spots. The chatter from the carbons and the oxygens was ridiculous. Who really cared that they were alpha-linked, or that they were in fact acetals as glycogen which was better than before, when they were lone glucose hemi-acetals. Certainly not him.

To preserve his sanity, Jon conjugated Greek tenses. _Present, future, aorist, perfect/pluperfect, perfect passive, future passive, aorist passive_.

Then he heard a chorus of cries and the whirring the foretold the arrival of the only bright spot of light in Jon's microworld. His hydrogen bonds quivered with anticipation as the distant notes of "Carboneater" came closer.

Zahir the Glycogen Phosphorylase enzyme finally arrived, chomping merrily and chortling at the individual glycogen molecules as they bitterly complained about being forced back into glucose-1-phosphates. Zahir's phosphate cap sat jauntily on his globular form, and he greeted Jon the glycogenin protein.

"Jon! άωἀσχοὐ έλεξχὀμενος!"

Jon swiftly translated this as 'admit that you're beaten.' "Never!" he cried. "συγκαλυψοὐ!"

Zahir laughed. "No, I shall not cover myself in shame. You've been practicing."

"Not much else to do but listen to these hooligans," Jon grumbled. "All they do is brag about how much energy they'll make, and how life is so much better as glucose. They don't realize how good they have it."

"Cheer up, friend. They'll be out for quite a while; the host is getting mugged, so we're dumping all the glucoses from the glycogenin. They'll all be used up and when they get back, they'll be too tired even to complain."

"I hope so."

"Besides, I've done my duty and there are plenty more phosphorylases working. Extra shifts were called up, so I can stay and chat with you for a while." Jon budged over, and Zahir settled by his side.

So Jon the glycogenin and Zahir the glycogen phosphorylase floated together in the cytoplasm of the cell, crooning soft tunes of 'I want to break free [of my bonds],' 'I believe I can agglutinate,' and the newest hit by Lady TATA, 'Bad Reaction.'

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><p><strong>Pyruvate, PG<strong>**  
><strong>**Summary**: Pyruvate is the three-carbon molecule at the end of glycolysis. It is a crossroads of sort, as it can go on to make lactic acid, can go into the Kreb's Cycle, or can be converted back to glucose through a series of steps in the process called gluconeogenesis.

Zahir's dark eyes watch the tall northern man as he greets members of the Bloody Hawk tribe. The broad-shouldered man wears a starch white burnoose, tied so expertly that the boy scornfully wonders if he'd requested help from a woman of the tribe.

This man who possesses pale skin that is sure to turn red and burn under the harsh desert sun, this man is the Voice of the Tribes. Zahir can't imagine how a northern noble, especially a king, can know their people well enough to commune with them.

This whole business seems like a manipulation to ensure that the Bazhir stay where they are, underfoot, downtrodden, for no Bazhir may make war against the Voice.

But this king can't be the Voice forever. Sooner or later, the mantle must fall to someone else, someone close to the Crown, someone trusted.

Zahir knows this. He knows that it would be satisfying to throw a stone at the man, to curse him, jeer at him, to disregard the disapproval of the tribe elders. But it might be ultimately more useful to stay at his side, to become indispensable, 'loyal.'

Zahir ponders the rock clutched between rough fingers. Then they loosen, and the jagged stone falls to the ground.

* * *

><p><strong>Hydrolysis, G<strong>**  
><strong>**Summary:**Hydrolysis: The chemical reaction that splits apart a molecule (or hydroxide from carbon) using water.

For any young child, it is a difficult moment when he parts with his childhood. Boys who were to be pages were removed at a younger age than most.

The trial in Zahir, however, was not over the struggle to leave behind his childish ways. Growing up in the desert, there was little time to do more than survive, and even a young boy's restless energy was put to use.

Zahir ran his fingers through the fine sand. He had taken his first step here, had traveled across the desert and back. He knew the location of the nearby oases, the secret lairs of the desert predators. He knew how to drink water from plants, how to live and thrive on little more than hot air and sand.

He would leave all of this to go into the service of the Northern King, this King Jonathan. The Voice had come to their tribe, and of all of the boys, had chosen him.

Zahir supposed that he ought to feel proud.

Yet as he slowly packed his bags for the long journey north, to a land drowning in water, a part of Zahir remained, rooted to the shifting sands.


	4. Chapter 4

**Tradition, PG-13****  
><strong>**Summary:** Apparently this is tradition. Zahir has his doubts. A _bit_ cracky.

**A/N**: Warning for slight implications of Jon/Zahir – at least on Jon's side. He's rather creepy.

Zahir blinked away the sweat that trickled into his eyes. He felt another bead on his back, forging a meandering path towards the small of his back.

_Tradition, my ass_, he thought furiously, yet the Bazhir refused to allow himself to move.

It was the night before the night before his Ordeal, and apparently it was tradition that squires take a traditional sweat-bath the day before their overnight vigil in the Chamber.

Zahir had more than a few doubts. No one else had mentioned such a strange (traditional) ritual. He strongly suspected that his current state of undress had more to do with his knight-master and less to do some farcical tradition.

After all, there was absolutely no need for the oil that covered his body. The king had enjoyed _that_particular part entirely too much, for he had chuckled under his breath as he smoothed on the oil with his bare hands. And he took far too much care in doing so. Zahir's chest really did not need to be covered three separate times just in case a spot was missed.

Zahir also refused to perform for the eyes he was certain were watching him. The king probably expected him to jump around, scrape off the oil so that he could leave faster, but Zahir would not grant him such a view. He was naked but for a thin loincloth, after all.

No, Zahir refused to believe that it was tradition for all squires. For King Jon's squires, well, maybe.

Considering his current status, that was quite believable.

* * *

><p><strong>Tradition, G<strong>**  
><strong>**Summary:** A serious tradition before the investiture of a new Voice.

The pair sat cross-legged, silent, a smoldering fire between them.

"Are you ready?" The king's quiet voice seemed small in the empty space around them.

Zahir shifted just slightly, but his face remained impassive and his head raised proudly, the nerves battling his confidence. "I am." In his voice, at least, Zahir's self-assurance won out.

"It is tradition," Jon began, "that the night before the new Voice is appointed, there is a period of reflection for the one who assumes the duties and the one who is relieved of them. Much like the vigil before your Ordeal, you should contemplate upon what is important, but you may speak if you desire."

Silence. Then:

"What did you think of, sire?"

In the dark, Zahir could barely see Jon's sad smile. "Love. Duty." He took a deep breath. "Jealousy. Doubts. Was I doing the right thing; would Al-she say yes."

"Are you good enough for the duty," Zahir breathed, and Jon nodded.

The pair sat cross-legged, silently sharing thoughts, staring into a slowly-dying fire.

* * *

><p><strong>Revealed, PG<strong>**  
><strong>**Summary:**Jon has one more bit of information before the Voice ceremony.

"Zahir."

The Bazhir bowed to his former knight-master as the older man approached. "Sire."

Jon hesitated, then spoke in a flood of words that he could not hold back. "You're not the Voice yet. Nothing is certain yet. If you wanted to, you could back out."

Zahir frowned. "What's wrong?"

Jon didn't meet his eyes. "Nothing, of course not. It's just that you need to know that there are no expectations on you. If you were to decide to not undergo the ritual, I'd understand."

Zahir shook his head. "There is no question. I've completed the training, you say I'm ready, so I am."

"There's something you must know first, something I didn't tell you, something no one knows. You're not my first squire."

"Of course not," said Zahir, slightly exasperated. This indecision was completely out of character for the forthright king.

"I mean, you're not the first squire I've trained to be Voice."

Zahir's eyes narrowed. "Since you are still Voice, I assume the other person..." He trailed off.

The king nodded shortly. "Died. The ritual didn't take. He was unsuitable in some way, and was struck down by lightning."

Zahir's jaw went slack. "Just like that?"

"Apparently, I made a poor teacher." The feeble joke fell flat, so Jon forged on. "I would understand if you don't want to risk it."

Silence stretched between the two men until it became nearly tangible. Finally, Zahir spoke.

"If it is the whim of the gods, then so be it," he said quietly but firmly. "I believe this is something I must do. If I am right, they will see me through safely. If not, then you make a poor teacher indeed."

* * *

><p><strong>Tilt-Silly, PG<strong>**  
><strong>**Summary:**Zahir tilts and deeply regrets it.

Every muscle in his body protested. Strenuously.

Zahir raised one arm made of noodles and weakly saluted his old training master as they both left the tilting field.

How had Jon convinced him to enter into the tournament was a mystery. Why Lord Wyldon decided to punish him was a further mystery.

As each plodding step of his charger jostled his aching bones, Zahir idly wondered if the man had seen him talking with his youngest daughter. Elsa-something. It didn't matter; no girl was worth this pain.

"Alright there, squire?"

The cheerful and highly-amused voice of his knight-master jolted Zahir, and he slowly opened his eyes to meet Jon's. They sparkled blue in the bright afternoon light. The Bazhir groaned just slightly, and though Jon laughed, the king's hands were gentle and firm as helped his squire dismount.

"Now you'll know better than to eye Wyldon's youngest, don't you?" He said as he supported Zahir to the tents.

Zahir opened one blood-shot eye. "Who?"

"That's the spirit! Now, Vania is young still, but I'll have you know that she's rather fascinated by you..."

* * *

><p><strong>The Black God Calls, PG-13<strong>**  
><strong>**Summary:**The Black God calls everyone, some earlier than others. Character death.

People died every day. Sometimes it was an accident, sometimes it was murder, and sometimes the Black God called and people were bidden to follow.

It was a fact of life, yet it hit the living as a fresh gaping wound every time.

When Zahir heard the news, he rushed to his friend's quarters and found him collapsed against a wall, running his fingers through a bit of hair tied with a faded ribbon.

"Jon?" he said softly, and the king looked up with red-rimmed eyes and eyelashes that trembled with unshed tears.

Zahir took one step and knelt at Jon's side. He gently removed the love token from the limp hands.

"Thayet is dead," Jon choked out.

"I know."

Zahir didn't attempt to move Jon, only coaxed him to lie down. He sat with his wounded friend as the man reminisced about his departed wife, and ran his fingers through Jon's thinning hair.

He could bring no resolution, only small comfort. That would have to be enough.

* * *

><p><strong>Last Voice, PG-13<strong>**  
><strong>**Summary:**A cacophony of anguish heralds a death. Rating for character death.

Zahir sighed and waved a sharp hand. "Begin again," he ordered, and the young man perched on a rickety stool restarted his recitation, shoulders slumped. Zahir absently scratched the short beard on his chin, now shot through with gray after so many years.

Suddenly, a voice in his mind cried out just once, then fell silent. As it died away, the sorrow of a thousand thousand voices rang in his mind, and he clasped his hands to his ears in a futile attempt to block out the mental agony. The pain drove him to his knees, and he gasped for air through the band that constricted his chest.

Slowly, the piercing pain receded enough for him to realize that his young apprentice knelt at his side, tears hanging onto the ends of his eyelashes. His voice had been in the second cacophony, echoed by all the Bazhir, living and dead, as they felt the previous Voice die away and his last cry to his people.

Zahir slowly regained his feet, and he looked at the man - boy, really - with red-rimmed eyes.

"King Jonathan is dead," he whispered. "Long live King Roald."

* * *

><p><strong>Swivel, G<strong>**  
><strong>**Summary:** Jon has a new toy.

**A/N: **Another inside joke from Goldenlake. When the winner of each round is announced, one of the admin writes a winner's fic. For the Jon/Zahir round, Jon was inexplicably fascinated with his swivel chair.

Zahir nudged open the door with an absentminded elbow, his attention engrossed in a scroll of paper. "Sire, have you read Artur haMinch's latest treatise on-" He stopped abruptly.

"Hello squire," said the cheerful king.

Zahir nearly dropped the scroll. "What is that?"

"My new chair." Jon revolved once, then spoke again. "Do you like it?"

"I, uh."

Still spinning slowly, Jon spoke when he again faced his squire. "It's actually Thayet's new chair."

Turn.

"It's mine now."

Turn.

"It _swivels_."

Indeed it did, and Zahir stared at his revolving knight-master. He did the only thing possible at that moment. He laughed.


End file.
